Love Letter
by quitesirius
Summary: As their six month anniversary approaches, Ron prepares himself for the ultimate act of bravery: writing a love letter. He may need a little help from his friends...


**_A/N: I wanted to do something Ron/Hermione that wasn't, you know, depressing. I'm in the midst of re-working "The Other Side of Goodbye" (which is coming along swimmingly), and I'm stuck on "Bedtime Stories". Just wanted you all to know I'm still around and haven't disappeared (though my stint in Spain was very tempting to not return from)._**

**_Reviews are love._**

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_Love Letter_

_Chapter One: Brothers Are No Help_

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It was with a certain dread that Ron began cooking breakfast.

He was deep in concentration as he stared down at the eggs in the pan, poking at them with his wooden spoon. He'd taken to cooking ever since The Camping Trip That Wouldn't End, in some silly attempt to never endure undercooked oatmeal again, though he knew his ability to whip up one hell of an omelet would be useless if he ever found himself in the woods for three months again. He pushed the magical tent and scent of pine from his thoughts and returned to what had led him to the kitchen to begin with.

He and Hermione were about to celebrate their six month anniversary.

It seemed silly, he thought, tossing pieces of shredded cheese into the pan, that he was so worried about this. He had spoken to his father, brothers, and Harry in order to sense out what he needed to do. Since the war, he had been quite determined to prepare against any missteps when they could be avoided in advance.

He had been doing well. He brought Hermione flowers every Wednesday at lunch time, unfailingly, for the last six months. Each Saturday morning, he would walk hand-in-hand with her through Hogsmeade or by the Black Lake. He kissed her hello and goodbye (and "thank you" and "sorry" and "its three o'clock") and even though he knew they both got a secret thrill whenever they rowed over something silly, he was always the first to apologize. He would bring her books he thought she might like and once he even talked George into lending him enough money to take Hermione to Paris for the weekend (he still owed George 35 galleons and was on a payment plan).

Indeed, the first time he and Hermione had been, err… intimate… he had thought he had done everything he could of. He had been polite, and respectful, and not once did he bonk her nose or giggle when her hair draped over his chest. He had blushed profusely for a good while, of course, but in the end he had lost himself in chocolate curls and gentle touches. She had said she'd enjoyed herself, and he held her close until the sun came up, and then he'd made her breakfast. He spent the whole day with her and made her tea and even read to her aloud while they laid beneath a tree.

And yet, he was starting to think he was doing something wrong.

He could tell Hermione was itching for a certain something on this day. She had been hinting at something, he knew, but he was unsure of her signals. He had been getting progressively better at reading Hermione, but… She was leaving out poetry books, wide-open. Blank parchments and unused quills and ink bottles were left in random places. She had even made him start watching muggle movies, which he didn't mind because he found them quite fascinating visually, but the stories were all the same. Two lovers, torn by distance and time and all these other sad things that he hated to admit he knew well…

He had gathered the facts and ran them past Harry, who he felt confident knew Hermione nearly as well as he did. Harry was often quite good at picking up on what Hermione was trying to silently tell Ron—or, maybe it was Ginny who was good at it, and Harry was just good at listening when Ginny talked.

Regardless, it had been Harry who told Ron that Hermione was in search of… Ron gulped as he spooned eggs onto a plate… a love letter.

Ron was a Gryffindor through and through, but the thought of sitting down to profess his feelings in so bold a manner shook him to his core.

Ron leaned against the counter and began to scoop hot eggs into his mouth, casting a sidelong glance at the blank parchment that had been so innocently left out by Hermione. She was at Hogwarts now, but she had visited yesterday and "accidentally" left Ron all the supplies he needed to write her a love letter than measured approximately fifteen inches.

"Oi, Ron, make enough for everyone?"

Ron nearly jumped out of his socks and dropped his plate when George appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He had been sleeping on George's couch for the better part of five months, fulfilling his promise to mum to watch his brother as well as his promise to George to help him rebuild the shop (as he'd promised Fred). Ron usually liked to sleep until George trounced him, but this morning he'd been unable to sleep and had forgotten that George was usually up around the same time as the sun.

"Bit skittish this morning," George observed, lifting a brow and snatching a mug off a hook on the wall. "Bowtruckles in your knickers?"

Ron glared at his brother and shook his head. "No."

George chuckled and lifted a steaming mug of tea to his lips. "Titchy," he remarked, then sipped at his drink. "What's troubling you," he paused, and Ron knew it was because George still had problems adjusting to someone else not finishing his sentences, "Ickle Ronniekins?"

"Nothing." Ron turned and deposited his dishes into the sink, took out his wand, and set the dishes to cleaning themselves.

"It's about Hermione, isn't it?" George asked, sighing in a fake frustration. "You forgot it's your six month, didn't you? Honestly, Ronnie, it's a wonder she hasn't sent more canaries after you."

"I didn't forget!" Ron snapped, shooting a trademark Weasley glare at George.

George, being a fellow Weasley, was immune and simply chuckled into his mug. As Ron continued to glare, George shrugged his shoulders and set his mug down. He reached up and itched at what had once been his ear, a hole in his head now hidden behind a curtain of shaggy ginger hair. He no longer seemed bothered by his wound, but Ron supposed that was because nobody could see it… and now he saw his twin in the mirror.

"Look, George," Ron said, feeling a sudden surge of pride that George was his elder brother, "I just… I need some help."

George motioned for Ron to continue.

"Swear you won't poke fun?"

With a heavy sigh, George nodded. "Alright. I can tell this is one of those 'brother moments' mum is always talking about. I'll poke fun in a couple years. For now, though, you're safe. Weasley Honor," he said, tugging at the fringe of his hair.

Ron nodded and knit his brows together. "Uh, well… it's like… Hermione… she, uh… wants me to… to…"

"Be more adventurous in the bedroom? Ron, every once in a while, women like to change things up and you've got to learn to roll with before some other bloke—"

"No!" Ron shouted, shocked and horrified. "It's not—not *that*!"

George looked skeptical. "Ron. I know that you and Hermione are familiar with one another, and quite frankly I'm not surprised that Hermione would want to up the ante. Those bookish types are always the ones who—"

"No, George! She wants me to write her a love letter!"

George's eyes went as wide as Ron felt his were. The prospect of writing such a letter had been horrifying enough on its own, but now that George knew, it was both more terrifying from his own perspective and nerve-wracking for both Weasleys.

"Oh sweet Merlin's pants," George mumbled, adjusting his bathrobe to pull it tighter around himself. "That's a problem. Oh, Ron," he looked at Ron, no hint of humor in his eyes. "That's going to be awfully tricky."

"Good thing you're the trickiest guy I know," Ron replied, but George did not look amused. "Come on, George. You're so… so… you're good with girls."

George nodded and shrugged, a look of superiority briefly flashing over his features. "Well, yeah, but that's nothing. Flirting with half-veelas and quidditch players is one thing. You're talking about a girl you genuinely care for… a girl with high expectations and brains and… oh Merlin."

Ron collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs. "That's not easing me any."

"Wasn't meant to. Well, good luck with that!" A loud pop resounded throughout the kitchen as George disappeared from sight.

"Blighter," Ron muttered. He turned to finish his breakfast, elbow bumping over his goblet of pumpkin juice. The papers Hermione had left were soaked. "Bullocks!"

After addressing the sticking mess of parchment and pumpkin juice, Ron got dressed and wandered down into Diagon Alley. George would be immersed in paperwork in his office all day, re-ordering items and struggling to do the accounting that had been Fred's specialty. Percy had promised to stop by and look it all over. Verity and Garrett were working the morning shift and it seemed that Ron would be free for the morning… possibly the whole day, as Mondays were slow and George had been closing early the last few.

He walked into Flourish and Blott's, for once without the intention to leave as quickly as he could. With a nod to the sales clerk, he walked up the stairs and into one of the last sections he thought he would ever spend time in: poetry.


End file.
